Author: zora

Ripe to You? Ripe to ME!

Ripe to You is the best thing that’s happened to me this winter! Well, I guess life-saving surgery is up there, but a 20-pound box of mixed citrus flown straight from California is also a fabulous treat.

Thanks, Saveur magazine for tipping me off to this gem. Thanks also to Peter’s colleague who is a devotee of mail-order food, and who was running through a list of tasty treats (none of which I can remember now–some kind of marshmallow cookie things, at least) that he received regularly by post. This litany of gift boxes must’ve set Peter and me in the right mood to throw down the cash ($35 for a 20-pound box seems reasonable…oh, but wait, the shipping…ouch).

Also, I was missing California a little. I still can’t get the image of the one farmers’ market stall in Santa Monica that dealt in nothing but tangerines. There were about 80 varieties, all with free samples out. It was like a dream. I began to taste each one, to make an educated decision, but I realized it was hopeless and just grabbed a three-pound bag of some nice ones with the stems still on. Of course they were insanely perfectly delicious.

Speaking of stems, that’s a small selling point of Ripe to You–a lot of the fruit still has stems and leaves on. It looks nicer, and I secretly think it keeps the fruit a wee bit fresher longer. Always, always when you buy supermarket tangerines with the stems on, they turn out to be the best ones you get all winter.

Also, Ripe to You is educational. Did you know the minneola is a cross of a grapefruit and a tangerine? I did not.

Oops, I think I may have eaten all the minneolas already.

Trader Joe’s — A Rant

Although I don’t dislike Trader Joe’s quite as much as this guy, I have to say he’s right on in his criticism of their pushing prepackaged, precut vegetables:

It’s none of my business how people spend their money, but I can’t help but think that money spent on peeled veggies could be better spent on a bottle of wine, a dry-aged steak, or a bottle of white truffle oil. Celery and salad greens are supposed to be cheap. I can’t believe how willing we have become to make them and every other piece of produce expensive.

Trader Joe’s isn’t the only sinner, of course–they just make the veggies marginally cheaper than everyone else. I’m a little bit more disturbed out how I could spend $100+ at a TJ’s in Connecticut (I had a job interview up there–back when I wanted a job!–and rented a minivan to capitalize on its proximity to TJ’s) and come away with nothing but frippery: not-very-satisfying granola, weird dips, etc. About the only very useful things I bought there were frozen blueberries. (Maybe TJ’s should just shift over to nothing but frozen foods, like that Spanish chain?) The stores strike me as little more than glorified snack-food purveyors.

And I hate to think what this will mean for cocktail parties in New York. I remember someone in LA complaining about how everybody serves the same brie from TJ’s, with the same crackers and the same cheap wine. It could happen here.

Whether or not I do end up patronizing this new, allegedly life-changing emporium (and really, how could I not visit once?), I have but one prayer: Lord, let me never resort to “baby” carrots. Cooking takes a little work, but there’s something deeply satisfying about peeling a carrot with a good vegetable peeler.

Maybe California isn’t better after all…

This is great news! I like phrases like “veritable foodie paradise” and “$60 million restoration of the Battery Maritime Building.” Also, I deeply appreciate the words “having learned from the touristification of South Street Seaport.”

Why do I care, seeing how the Battery Maritime Building couldn’t be farther from where I live? Because San Francisco has a place like this, and I’m jealous. In fact, almost every decent city has a massive food hall. Come to think of it, what do tourists do when they come to NYC? Because when I travel, the market is the first place I visit.

Here, you’ve got your Whole Foods, which is slick and dull. Your Dean & Deluca, which is small and snotty. Your Chelsea Market, which is horribly, horribly lit and has depressing acoustics. And your new Balducci’s, which is enh, but at least is handily located for Karine and gives out lots of free samples.

Foooood haaaaalllll. Yessss, that’s what will make this city truly shine! Perhaps I will rent a stall, so I can sell unsolicited advice, and passionfruit curd.

Hospital Food: The Pros Weigh In

The New York Times today has a story about hospital food (registration required). The second graf rang true:

…Mrs. Tobias, 81, picked at a lukewarm chicken breast and rice pilaf dampened with sticky brown sauce. Boiled carrot sticks and shredded iceberg lettuce with a packet of low-calorie French dressing filled out the tray. She said her fruit cocktail tasted as if someone had rinsed it in running water and squeezed it dry…. “All of it tastes like nothing, and it smells worse,” she said to her granddaughter in Tagalog.

Interesting fact: “In some facilities, more than a third of the food served on an average day goes untouched.”

But apparently there’s hope:

…nutritionists say the medical profession has begun to recognize that good-tasting, culturally correct food that is served at the proper temperature and when a patient is ready to eat can help people feel better faster, save on food costs and attract patients with good insurance plans.

This is interesting–do I count as a patient with a good insurance plan? I’m not sure. Are hospitals competing for the opportunity to run CT scans on me?

On the other hand, a lot of hospitals don’t feel motivated to overhaul the food service because “there is no definitive connection between fresher, better tasting food and healthier patients.” So, uh, they shouldn’t bother?

“Floor workers have had to deal with thrown trays and tears when the doctors’ orders did not match what was on the tray.” I never would’ve done anything like that. No way.

The gist of the rest of the article is that some hospitals are starting to follow a room-service model for food delivery, with a big menu and the ability to order at any time of day. The only flaw here, of course, is that room-service food often sucks as well.

Brazilianaki?!

OK, I know there are lots of Brazilians in Astoria. And I know there are lots of Greeks. And I know that ‘-aki’ is the diminutive in Greek. But I still don’t know why some crappy-ass jewelry store on Ditmars would name themselves “Brazilianaki.” The suspicious thing is that the shop doesn’t look substantially different from when it was clearly a Korean-run joint with a name like “Hello Gift Center” or something.

That’s just one thing I saw when I went up to my old stomping grounds last night. (Uh, people, if there’s still 20-78 by my name in your address book, it’s wrong and has been for more almost nine months. Luckily, Aaron still acts as a package holding service, but he takes a cut of the cookies you mail.) Another thing in Ditmars-land: a hipster Thai place, called Wave Thai. Which would be exciting, except it’s where the Hungarian deli used to be–the Hungarian deli that stocked duck fat and had the most enthusiastic woman owner ever, the Hungarian deli where I discovered I just am not so into head cheese. But since I’m probably part of the reason she didn’t stay in business (I OD’d on duck fat and couldn’t go back in), Wave Thai is probably a good trade up for the people who still live up there.

Farther up that block of 31st St., the photo studio is out of business, which is tragic because those portraits of people with their pets always made my walk home so much better.

And back close to the train, there’s a new Cold Stone Creamery. Man, those things are popping up everywhere. They’re like the Commerce Bank of ice cream, but fortunately smaller. Because damn, that Commerce Bank at Ditmars is ugly. Very shiny, but ugly. It’s getting very chain-store up there. Makes me almost glad I’m down at super-scruffy 36th Avenue, with all the Brazilians. The little Brazilians.

Au Revoir, Mr. Cool Whip

The Economist has a thorough obituary for a man I never thought to blame personally: Robert Rich, the guy who invented the prototype for what’s now known as Cool Whip.

Man, I was a sucker for that stuff when I was little. Because at my house, of course we could only have real cream (yawn), and only with very good dessert, on special occasions. Whereas at my friends’ houses, I could eat Cool Whip every day after school, by the giant spoonful, before it could even find its way to the bowl of ice cream, the kind that was very fluffy and came in those square cartons. And then we’d watch The Dukes of Hazzard and argue over who was cuter, the blond one or the dark-haired one, or we’d dance around while Kenny Rogers sang “The Gambler.”

Boy, those were the days–before I thought to read ingredient lists, and didn’t know quite how chilling the words “whipped topping” were. I’m afraid that Cool Whip is all still in my digestive tract somewhere. I hate to imagine.

Astoria: Land of Opportunity

Forget what I said a couple of posts ago. I’m very happy to be back in Astoria, mostly because I’ve gotten back to my usual activities: eating and walking and poking around in grocery stores. Last night Peter and I went to dinner at a place called Mundo (31-18E Broadway, but really, on 32nd St. just south of Broadway). This is old news to cool Astorians, as it’s been open since last summer, and I don’t know why I haven’t gotten it together to go before.

I guess it’s because I didn’t know they had manti (really, there shouldn’t be a dot on that ‘i’, and it’s pronounced “man-tuh”). Those are the dainty little Turkish meat dumplings that are drowned in garlicky yogurt. Their daintiness is testament to the legions of limber-fingered kitchen slaves, I mean loving Turkish wives and grandmothers, who are dedicated to churning them out by the thousands. They’re so tiny it’s almost like eating breakfast cereal when you scoop them up with a spoon.

So the dumplings were divine; we also had very tender and tasty baby okra, a delectable Argentine-style empanada with that nice sweet/meaty filling, tasty cold lentil patties wrapped up in lettuce, and artichoke hearts served with fava bean paste molded into pretty shapes. That latter thing even somehow made Egyptian-style fava bean paste (bisara) a bit more appealing.

And we had some nice warming gluhwein to start, and a really yummy, fluffy almond cake for dessert. And it was reasonably priced.

And I haven’t even gotten to the vibe and general decor, which is really a treat. Astoria generally suffers from the faux-bistro phenomenon. These are the restaurants that cater to diners looking for a “non-ethnic” experience, but they’re only eerie not-quite-right imitations of places that are a dime a dozen in Manhattan. Crappy fonts on the menus, overly decorative plates, gum-chewing waitstaf and a clientele made up largely of real-estate agents and their girlfriends–these are the giveaways of the faux-bistro. But I can’t complain too much because I’m generally happy that Astoria isn’t overrun with yuppies and hipsters.

Which is what makes Mundo so nice–it’s a hipster place without the hipsters, and it doesn’t seem to be trying too hard. Someone’s photos are hung on the wall from coathangers. Tiny disco balls and miniature shoes dangle from the ceiling. The music is global electronica. And the owners are a young Turk and an Argentine, both of which delight me because (1) fanatical Greek Astoria needs more Turks, who, frankly, cook better food, and (2) Argentines are the newest arrivals in the neighborhood, and they seem like the youngest and coolest, but I haven’t really known where they hung out except for that bar Ize on 36th Ave.

So we went home full and happy. And then this afternoon we had lunch at the Ecuadorian joint on 36th Ave., the place where the windows are always steamed up, where $12 bought us two bowls of fish soup, two platters of meat and rice and beans, all-we-could-eat hot salsa, and two sodas. Not to mention kind service and the Discovery Channel dubbed into Spanish.

Then we popped over to the Fisher Landau Center for Art, which I’d read some passing reference to last year and was surprised to see that it’s just a few blocks away from where I live. Usually all that cool art stuff is down in LIC proper. It’s three floors in a big warehouse, with Rosenquist and Rauschenberg and all that jazz, but I liked all the Shirin Neshat photos and a little mechanical sculpture using bird feathers, by Rebecca Horn. The whole first floor was all animal-y. Imagine my chagrin then, when I asked how long the place had been open.

“Oh, since 1991.”

“Whaaa?” (I reel in shock.)

“Well, it was just appointment only until 1993.” (Helpfully, kindly.)

“Huh.” (Still dumbfounded.)

“And we didn’t put up the banner until a few years ago.”

Oh. That explains why I’d never even heard of the place?

And it’s free. It kills me to think how much free art I’ve missed in the eight years I’ve lived here.

So then Peter and I had to kill a little time before meeting a realtor, so we stopped in the Bangladeshi store, where they had whole mace, date syrup, mango leather and lots of frozen fish. The guy at the counter asked, “Was everything all right?” as if we were in a restaurant, and when I was eyeing the mango leather, his cohort handed me a free sample. And then I asked what those round things were behind the counter, and the next thing we knew, we were getting the full betel-nut demo and taste test.

We were discreetly spitting and I was kind of dizzy by the time we met the realtor. The house sucked and cost a whopping $700K, but we quickly put that out of our heads with more shopping, at the kindly Guyanese guy’s store, on 36th Ave. The guy stocks fish sauce, which Peter has been complaining about not being able to get here for years. If Fisher Landau is my missed opportunity, H&V Grocery is his.

Sweet Astoria–so bursting with opportunities for fun and tastiness that it really doesn’t matter if you miss a few.

eat me!

No, really, that’s just the title of a blog by someone named Parsnippity.

I wish I’d thought of that nickname. I love parsnips. (Karine and I were going to start a parsnip promotional board, complete with informative website, a few years ago. But I think someone had already registered parsnip.com, and was using it to slag off parsnips. Jerk.) I can also be kind of snippy.

Anyway, you might want to visit this blog if you have a soft spot for vegetables, or for felt crafts. I’m especially fond of the radish barrettes (you have to scroll back in the archives a little for those).

If you think those veggies are too soft and cute, check out these mean little non-beasties. What kids get up to with a crochet hook these days…

Thanks to Jeremy and Chantal of the Frozen North for alerting me to these.

Back Home in Astoria

Peter, as we all know, does not like California. But when a state provides luxe accommodations, balmy weather and fine food, you can bet I wasn’t complaining. Sri Lankan tastiness in Santa Cruz. Armenian fantasticity in Glendale, thanks to Ashley and her way with the cabbies; too bad we weren’t dressed classy enough to stay for the floor show. A welcome at LAX involving fresh-squeezed OJ from Peter’s parents. The Santa Monica farmers’ market–where, alas, I made not a single celebrity sighting. And excellent catering by Tamara, Karine and my mother throughout.

We tried to bring some of the magic back home: Peter’s suitcase was bursting with tomatoes, artichokes and tangerines. But damn, it’s still cold in New York. And lovely as it was to see the whole gang, including Ali, for dinner last night, I’m missing some of the joy of the neighborhood because I can’t really go grocery shopping. Well, I can go strolling through the aisles and fondling vegetables, but I can’t carry anything home–my post-op “sternal precautions” are still in place for another week or two. There’s some parallel with an eating disorder here, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

So. Here I am. I’m not saying I’m going to move to California anytime soon, but this is the first time I haven’t been jumping for joy to get back to Astoria. That’s the cold, hard truth. Very cold.

Goodbye, Edna Lewis!

So sad to wake up this morning and find that Edna Lewis, queen of Southern cuisine, had passed away. Here’s the the New York Times obit.

We’ve eaten her fried chicken (fried in butter and lard flavored with country ham–see, I told you she was the queen of Southern cuisine) many times chez Tamara, not to mention her apple cake with salt caramel topping.

Sniff.

(Here are links to her two most popular books on Amazon: The Taste of Country Cooking and The Gift of Southern Cooking. The latter has the life-changing fried chicken recipe in it.)